


Exceptions

by Del (goddessdel)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 19:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6673441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessdel/pseuds/Del
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I know you can’t come here. Come anyway.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exceptions

**Author's Note:**

> Written: 10/16/12-3/2/16
> 
> This fic takes place during His Last Vow, specifically during Sherlock's second hospitalization.
> 
> It was initially inspired by the brilliant Solojones' fics: "What He Likes" and "The Sign of the Four", which I strongly recommend reading. However, other than Irene's current location, any similarity between fics is entirely unintentional. I just love what she did with Sherlock and Irene after Sherlock's fall - they nestled under my skin so thoroughly that I couldn't stop thinking about AU fic options.
> 
> Siger and Lydia are some of the many possible names for Sherlock's parents, since there were no names in ACD or Moffat/Gatiss canon, and chosen here because it's far too difficult to leave them nameless otherwise.
> 
> Thanks to Beverly, Lyra, and Tali for looking versions of this over. All remaining mistakes are my own.

At precisely 3:00am, her mobile rang. Immediately wary, Irene answered in a tone that was accusing despite the lingering traces of sleep that she couldn't be bothered to hide. “Hello?”

 

“A wrong number is a reasonable excuse for exactly 63 seconds.”

 

Irene inhaled sharply. The words were cold, clipped, matter-of-fact. Only one person would start a conversation like that. Still. He sounded... terrible. Worse than she’d ever heard him. Worse than the last time... Irene tried to fight down her instinctive response and lost the battle. “Are you all right?”

 

“I...” Sherlock cut himself off and paused. Whether it was her name or a reply, Irene couldn’t tell. It was a stupid question, she knew. Clearly he was anything but all right. And clearly it wasn’t safe to talk openly on this line.

 

Finally, “I know you can’t come here. Come anyway.” The ‘ _I need you’_ was so clearly implied that it might as well have been spoken aloud.

 

“Of course.” It was dangerous. They both knew that.

 

She heard his relieved sigh and wondered if he’d really thought she would say anything else, after everything.

 

“How long do you need?”

 

Irene was already up and grabbing a few necessities out of her dresser. “Give me two hours. I’ll be on the next flight.”

 

It was silent for a second too long and Irene could almost see his absent nod – she could certainly hear him plotting. She trusted him to have a plan and, besides, she always had a few to spare.

 

“Someone will meet you there.” Stiff. He sounded both annoyed and labored, like he was having trouble catching his breath.

 

Desperately trying to salvage something of the conversation, Irene adopted a teasing lilt to her voice. “Is it a surprise?”

 

“If it is, it’s not a very good one.” A click disconnecting them ended his sentence.

 

Irene took a moment to make sure her hands were steady, tucked her phone securely into the pocket of her dressing gown, and pulled out a case. Apparently, she was taking a trip.

 

\---

 

Sherlock leaned against the desk for a moment, fingers tapping lightly on the phone while he caught his breath. He hadn’t been sleeping and his anxiety and emotions were dangerously close to the surface. This whole actually almost dying thing was most inconvenient. He glanced at the other occupant of the room – still sound asleep, earplugs in to stave off the inevitable cacophony of a hospital – and slowly wheeled himself out of Mr. Goldman’s room.

 

He’d needed someone who might believably have made a misdial to a number in Israel, just in case. This was going to be a tricky enough proposition without adding any other linkers between Irene and him.

 

And, of course, he currently had limited options. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t supposed to be out of bed. Well, he wasn’t, really. He’d even deigned to use the godforsaken wheelchair while he snuck about the hospital because it helped him blend in (not, as John might have accused, because his legs were still somewhat unreliable).

 

Slowly, Sherlock made his way back to his room. He had calculated the precise time of night where there were the least staff on shift and the most shift changes. Still, Sherlock was relieved to make it back without being questioned by any nurses. Technically, he had bartered his way into limited freedom of the hospital, but surely being a whole wing away from his room at two o’clock in the morning would look suspicious, even to normal people.

 

\---

 

John was trying to sneak into his room, as if Sherlock hadn’t heard his hushed whispers with the nurse on call before he’d come through for visiting hours. Sherlock cracked open one eye and fixed it on his friend. “I need your phone.”

 

“Oh, so you’re awake then...” John paused, clearly realized how foolish he looked tiptoeing around, straightened up, fished out his mobile, and handed it over. “Dare I ask what for? You’re supposed to be resting, you know.”

 

“Am resting.” Sherlock shot back, but he was already engrossed in the phone, opening a text and browser almost simultaneously. Better not to use his, just in case. Even Mycroft would hardly bother to bug John's mobile. They both knew he couldn't be trusted with sensitive information.

 

“Who are you texting, Sherlock, with my phone?”

 

“My brother.”

 

John looked surprised, and for good reason given their recent altercation, but he had clearly decided that he’d play along with Sherlock for the meantime. That never boded well. “Sherlock. Uh. Look, I know you’re getting... bored. But you really do need to rest. I know you want to leave hospital, and I can’t blame you, but...”

 

“Not to worry, John. I’m resigned to at least another few days in this monstrosity of antiseptics and platitudes. I will need to borrow your phone for a while, though.”

 

\---

 

Mycroft appeared at his door exactly 45 minutes later. Slightly windswept. He’d taken the helicopter. Commute traffic must have been atrocious. “Baby brother.”

 

John took one look at the two of them and, with a stern glower at Mycroft, mumbled, “I’ll just grab a cuppa, shall I?” and escaped.

 

“I need you to collect someone from the airport.”

 

One of Mycroft’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “And why should I?”

 

“Because clearly I can’t very well go!” Sherlock’s temper was not improved by convalescence, withdrawals or his brother’s presence. Morphine only tempered a gunshot wound so far, and he used it only sparingly to keep his mind sharp. Besides, morphine had never been his drug of choice - the dull haze it induced was almost as intolerable as the pain it poorly masked.

 

Mycroft made a vaguely dismissive motion. “Of course. No need to exert yourself.”

 

Clearly Mycroft was concerned that Sherlock might decide to go anyway and pull his stitches again. Still, Sherlock wasn’t above using his brother’s newfound _concern_. “10:15am. EA875. Make sure the plane disembarks away from the terminals. No security footage. Handle it _personally_. Do not run anything through your _normal channels_.”

 

The eyebrow was nearing Mycroft’s hairline. Whether it was distain at the idea of running Sherlock’s errands or surprise that Sherlock was asking for a favor, it was hard to tell. “And whom, exactly, am I to be retrieving?”

 

“Oh,” Sherlock smirked nastily, “it’s a surprise.”

 

Already trying to figure out who his brother might be expecting from Israel, Mycroft started to leave, both eyebrows now arched. “If that’s all.” It was clear that Mycroft would not be letting this favor go anytime soon, near death experiences or no.

 

Having already experienced firsthand how limited his mobility was to be for the near future, Sherlock had decided the only pertinent course of action was to take full advantage of the current situation and make Mycroft as uncomfortable about it as possible. He offered a falsely cheerful, “For now.” And watched Mycroft’s suspicion with a certain amount of satisfaction.

 

When John re-entered the room, Sherlock was already permanently deleting his last sent message.

 

_Sending M to meet you. Do try to make it in one piece._

 

\---

 

The plane taxied around the tarmac for just over fifteen minutes before the announcement came across in two languages, both of which she spoke fluently. “Ladies and gentlemen, the plane before us appears to be running a bit behind schedule and hasn’t left the gate. Not to worry, they’re going to use the over-flow and shuttle you in from the tarmac. Just sit tight for a few more minutes. Thank you for your patience.”

 

Irene snorted under her breath and dug around in her oversized purse for sunglasses to better cover her face. Headscarf, full coverage and lightweight clothes, sturdy coat, expensive bag, overly-large sunglasses, perfect manicure. Nothing unusual for a wealthy socialite returning from the homeland. And it certainly made it harder to make out her features. Although, it looked like security had been taken care of for her. Of course. She suppressed the slight flutter of nerves in her stomach with the cheerful prospect of the look on Mycroft Holmes’ face. She doubted Sherlock had been in an enlightening mood.

 

Sure enough, Irene disembarked the plane in the middle of a large crowd of disgruntled commuting passengers, confused flight attendants and no visible security. She paused for one delicious moment to savor the view of Mycroft Holmes, umbrella in his hand and scowl on his face, leaning against a single black Jaguar parked off to the side. She wondered if Anthea was inside. “Right then.” She murmured to herself. Hard-fought though it was, she trusted Sherlock. Mycroft was another matter entirely.

 

Irene made her way to Mycroft’s side at a brisk clip, feeling his eyes lock on hers the moment she left the herd. It wouldn’t do to rush overly much, but it was an airport – everyone was rushing somewhat. She pulled down her sunglasses slightly and offered him her most scandalous wink. “Mr. Holmes. What a surprise.” It was clearly anything but, for her at least.

 

Mycroft was too collected to let the shock show. Or else he’d already digested it in the minute and fifteen seconds she’d allotted him. Ice Man, indeed. “Ms. Adler. Returned to the living, I see.”

 

They kept their voices low, passingly cordial. Irene kept hold of her handbag as she slid into the opened door of the car. No Anthea this time. Shame, that - the woman had been more useful than most. Mycroft followed her and Irene idly wondered when the last time was that Mycroft had driven his own car.

 

Silence descended until they were through the gates and well into the thick of traffic. All of Gatwick’s security appeared to have been out for a cup of tea, as it were.

 

Finally, Irene sighed. She doubted she’d get any better answers out of Mycroft than she had his brother, but this whole adventure was proof that Mycroft cared about Sherlock. She doubted Mycroft had any reason to trust her, let alone with Sherlock, given their last encounter. Best if she let him know that she cared as well, even if Mycroft believed it another game. “Is Sherlock all right?”

 

Mycroft did not look at her. “He’s in hospital.”

 

Irene sucked in a breath at the confirmation. She’d checked the number on her mobile. “And?”

 

“And,” Mycroft was as collected as ever, deftly shifting conversation in the direction he wanted, “I take it you spent time with my brother over his time away.”

 

Irene reminded herself that she was trying this honesty thing. With Mycroft Holmes, of all people. What was she thinking? About Sherlock, of course. Her one glaring exception. “Off and on.”

 

“You were aware of his _habits_ , then?”

 

Well, there was a loaded question. She could hear the accusation simmering underneath the calm. She was undoubtedly one of those habits, and she prided herself in being the most addictive. “Yes.” Her reply was clipped. The accusations may have been justified, but she’d be damned if she was going to explain the last two years to Mycroft. So much for honesty.

 

Mycroft’s knuckles tightened on the handle of his umbrella, but there really wasn’t anything else to say. Irene pushed her sunglasses back up and stared out the window at the passing London fog. A small part of her was thrilled to see London again. The rest of her was terrified.

 

\---

 

Irene kept her pace even as she wandered down the deserted corridor of private rooms, dreading to wonder what could have finally put Sherlock in hospital. She had a few guesses, none of which she wanted to dwell on. Irene kept busy, tugging off her scarf and sunglasses and putting them away in her handbag, not giving herself a moment to pause.

 

She supposed she should be grateful to Mycroft for escorting her as far as the reception area and getting her passed through without so much as a third glance. Apparently the kind of private room Mycroft was paying for came with a no-questions-asked clause standard.

 

Even though she was, by all accounts, alone, Irene kept her face neutral. She’d allowed herself a moment of composure when the plane had first touched down, and she wasn’t about to waste time wallowing in another. Besides the fact that alone was somewhat relative with Mycroft about, Sherlock was undoubtedly tracking her progress down the hall. It was too much to hope he might be asleep. He’d probably timed everything from the moment he phoned her until now down to the last second.

 

Best not to disappoint. Coat and handbag over one arm, Irene tugged the door firmly open and stepped inside, letting it close behind her, forgotten. Sherlock was awake, of course. Their eyes locked, leaving Irene frozen at the door, her most sincere faux smile slipping from her face.

 

He looked... ghastly. Not at all himself. Worse than she’d ever seen him, certainly, which was a starkly sobering thought. She’d truly hoped that the worst was behind him. But Sherlock – he looked half dead. Paler than usual, with dark circles under his eyes. Covered in wires and tubes and monitors. The only part of him that remotely resembled himself was the intensity simmering behind his eyes. Even that seemed exhausted. Irene had no idea where to begin. After everything they’d been through, it was hard to keep her neutral mask in place, seeing him so clearly hurting, but she knew he needed her to be stronger than that.

 

“You were right.” The words were sharp and scathing. “Coming back wasn't as easy as I'd - everything was...” But his voice ended up low and scratchy, and he turned his head away. “Different.” Sherlock’s voice cracked on the idea or the sentiment or how very different everything was.

 

Irene was by his side in an instant, hardly aware of moving, half on the bed as she took him in her arms. It had taken them years to reach the sort of understanding where their mutual sentiment wasn't something they both regarded with distain as weakness - and most of that understanding had occurred when they were both under the guise of death. “Oh, Sherlock.” She breathed out in half a whisper against his hair, clutching him tightly and refusing to entertain the idea that his return to the living relegated their shared sentiment to the past. “You should have phoned me sooner.”

 

There was no reproach in her tone and she felt Sherlock slowly relax against her, probably for the first time since they had parted. His arms came up and pulled her in closer, holding on just as fiercely as she was. Irene wanted to shake him for even thinking for a moment that she’d be there with anything other than worried, open arms. She’d been worried about him since the complications in Serbia, a thousand miles and a year distant.

 

They remained like that for long moments, both simultaneously trying to digest the fact that she was _here_ and, again, everything that had happened in the last few years. All the missed opportunities in London. All the time together while they were officially dead, hunting Moriarty's spider web and dodging Big Brother. Finally, with a huff, Sherlock disentangled himself enough to move toward the far side of the hospital bed. It was hardly big enough for him to get far. “It is evident from the curvature of your spine and tension in your shoulders that this is an uncomfortable position for you.”

 

Irene raised an eyebrow and remained where she was, neither confirming nor denying his observation. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “For god’s sake, just come here.”

 

Letting out a shaky breath, Irene tried to mask her lingering nerves as she shifted more fully onto the bed, curling against Sherlock gently, careful not to rest her weight on him. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her reception – they’d fought too hard to get past all the walls one another put up to doubt their feelings – but she was nervous ( _terrified_ , a traitorous voice whispered) seeing him like this. And more paranoid at being back in England than she would have preferred, though she shoved that feeling aside. “We’re going to give the nurses quite a shock.”

 

Sherlock snorted, tightening his arm around her. His movements were still jittery but he seemed to have calmed some. “Good riddance.”

 

Irene tried to just enjoy the feeling of lying in bed with Sherlock again, pushing away their surroundings. After all, this wasn’t the first time they’d been together under less than ideal circumstances (had it ever been anything but?). And she’d honestly worried that they might never see each other again, between his life in London and her still being technically dead.

 

Irene kept her eyes closed. She could feel Sherlock’s slightly labored but even breathing and hoped that he would sleep – he looked exhausted and she knew how terrible he was at taking care of himself at the best of times. But one of his fingers began absently tapping against her arm and, when she opened her eyes, he was staring intently at her, their faces only centimeters apart.

 

They remained like that, both trying to read one another. Sherlock’s other hand came up to rest against her cheek. “Irene.” He breathed out her name as though he still couldn’t believe she was there, his voice full of something that could have been awe - a far cry from his normal, clipped tone.

 

It was enough. Irene closed the gap between them, pressing her lips softly against his, as her hand came up to brush back his tangled locks. The kiss was almost chaste at first, a reassurance that neither could ignore in the one language they both understood explicitly. Slowly, it deepened, full of longing and _sentiment_ and how very much they had needed and missed each other since they had parted. Irene felt all her hard resolve melting away – it was going to be impossible to let him go this time.

 

They separated to catch their breath and Irene propped herself up on her elbow, remembering that perhaps she wasn’t the best thing for Sherlock’s blood-pressure. She offered a half smile, her hand tracing his cheekbones and jaw. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

Sherlock shook his head minutely. “Not particularly.” His tone had recovered its sharp confidence, though his arm tightened around her.

 

“Right. Just one thing then.” She knew it was probably the last thing he wanted to hear. Irene took a deep breath to steady herself and put every ounce of feeling she could into the question, fighting down the lingering twist to her gut at the vulnerability, “ _Are you all right_?”

 

“No.” A wry quirk of his lips, and Irene felt immediately emboldened by the familiar sardonic look. “But I should recover. I had a cardiac episode caused by the unappealing combination of excessive exercise, adrenaline, withdrawals, and a gunshot wound.” His voice was matter of fact but Irene could detect the self-depreciation lurking.

 

“Well, haven’t you been a busy boy this month.” Irene kept her tone light while she digested the implications. _Gunshot wound_ left a bad taste in her mouth. She knew the last few years had not been kind to his body, and he'd reacquired some less than ideal habits during that time, but nothing that had previously gotten him _shot_.

 

Sherlock smirked. “That was just this week.”

 

Irene kissed him again. What else was she supposed to do? Tell him she was shocked? Tell him she wasn’t? It was all a little too much. She was sure there was some marvelous story that he had no intention of telling her, and that was fine. But he’d just about died and no matter how much she wanted to, Irene couldn’t be as cavalier as Sherlock was about the matter.

 

After another long moment, Irene pulled back and tried to regain her senses. She started to reach for a chair but Sherlock caught her questing wrist in one hand, while the other tightened its grip around her waist. Irene could feel their pulses racing from where she was pressed against him. “Now, now, Mr. Holmes, if I stay here, I’ll have to ravish you. I simply won’t be able to contain myself. I’ll give you a heart attack and then you’ll be dead and I’ll be arrested on my first day out of exile, and we can’t have that, now can we?”

 

“Sometimes,” Sherlock deadpanned, “I think you enjoy torturing me.” But his grip slackened, eyes drifting almost shut as Irene slipped off the bed.

 

Irene winked as she dragged the little chair closer and settled down into it, “Whatever gave you that idea?” But she’d captured his hand in hers before he could protest. “Now do as you're told and go to sleep.”

 

“Dominatrix.” But he was smiling, ever so slightly, as his hand squeezed hers. It was a testament to how exhausted he clearly was that he didn't protest further.

 

“Always.”

 

\---

 

When John slowly eased the door to Sherlock’s room open, it was into a peaceful sort of quiet that was unprecedented.

 

Sherlock was sound asleep, curled on his side, blankets tucked up to his chin. One hand was out of the covers, even in sleep firmly clasping Irene’s. For her part, Irene was balanced precariously on the edge of the hospital chair she’d dragged near, bent at the waist and slouched mostly on the bed, her face resting on her free arm.

 

It was hard to say what was more shocking. The fact that Sherlock was (finally, much to John’s relief) sleeping, that he was holding hands, of all things, with Irene Adler (Irene Adler, who was supposed to be dead), of all people, that Irene was there at all, or that she had fallen asleep at his bedside, clearly accidentally. Maybe the most surprising fact was that the two looked utterly peaceful, masks stripped bare by sleep, clearly comfortable and taking comfort in one another’s presence.

 

Suddenly all John’s half-forgotten conjectures about Sherlock's time away were coming back to him. It was hard to know where to start, really. John was just shaking his head to clear it when Mary opened the door behind him, accidentally bumping him. John’s slight stumble was enough to wake the other occupants of the room. Mary froze in the doorway, wincing guiltily. "I just came to check on Sherlock. I didn't realize anyone was here."

 

John grit his teeth and turned his head away from Mary. She was blocking the door, so he could hardly leave, but that didn't mean he had to acknowledge her. She could be as sorry and as guilty as she liked, and maybe that was fine with Sherlock, but it didn't change anything as far as John was concerned.

 

Irene sat up and stretched slowly, settling back properly in her chair and turning to face John and Mary, though her hand did not let go of Sherlock’s. Tendrils of her dark hair had escaped her usual polished coif and softened her features.

 

For his part, Sherlock pushed himself into a sitting position, trying determinedly to look awake, and glared. “As John keeps reminding me, the appropriate social protocol is to knock.”

 

Heaving a weary sigh, John countered, “Texting your brother, Sherlock?” It wasn’t the question he most wanted to ask, but it was the first one that he could properly articulate.

 

“What? I was.” Sherlock released Irene in favor of crossing his arms over his chest, sulking.

 

John looked between Irene and Sherlock. She was very much not dead and this was very much not the first time that Sherlock had seen her in the last three years. Puzzle pieces were slowly clicking together. “Clearly.”

 

There was a tense moment as John stared at Sherlock and Sherlock looked at an apparently blank bit of wall, while Irene crossed her legs at the ankles and gazed between the two with unashamed fascination.

 

Keenly aware that she was out of the loop, Mary shrugged apologetically, eyes darting between the other occupants of the room. She attempted to diffuse the tension, keeping her voice upbeat with the practiced ease of someone used to denying culpability. “I just wanted to see how you were getting on, Sherlock. You look better.”

 

Irene’s eyes darted toward Sherlock but even John could see the horrified _this is better?_ reflected there. Sherlock kept his gaze stubbornly on the wall.

 

Mary turned to Irene, continuing with that same bold friendliness that had originally attracted John to her and now he realized must be as much of a façade as everything else in this room. "I don't think we've met. I'm Mary."

 

Irene rose from her chair and extended an entirely too forward arm toward Mary. “Mary? It’s a _pleasure._ ”

 

John sighed again, ran his free hand through his hair, and faced Irene head on before Mary could respond. He absolutely could not handle Irene Adler flirting with his wife. Not right now, not ever. “Oh you two would get on smashingly, wouldn't you - both completely heartless. My lying wife, who _shot_ my best friend, and Irene Adler, who has now faked her death _twice_.” While Irene repressed a smirk, Sherlock snorted, and John rounded on him. “Don’t you dare mention America. I had to tell you something. And, considering I didn’t know you were alive for _two years_ , we’re not about to quibble over it.” He was shaking, he was so cross.

 

Before John could reign in his brief fit of pique, Irene's eyes lit up with positively wicked glee. “Wife? Doctor Watson, you’ve been holding out on me." But a quick shadow passed across Irene’s face as she glanced back toward Sherlock.

 

Mary offered Irene a sad half-smile. “You forgot the lying part. Mary Watson - lovely to meet you. I take it you’re a friend of Sherlock’s? Sorry for putting him in hospital.”

 

Sherlock made a dismissive gesture, as though it were all water over the bridge. Irene's faked deaths and Mary's gunshot.

 

Irene teased her lip between her teeth and offered a scandalous wink in return. “Well. We’re certainly _friendly_. Though not friendly enough to land him in hospital, as of yet. How did you manage that?”

 

Mary offered the half-smug half-modest shrug that he used to so love about her. "With a gun and not a lot of grace."

 

" _Disgraceful_ ," Irene practically purred, "how exciting. Do tell?"

 

After all his time with Sherlock, John was used to a certain emotional insensitivity, but this was just beyond the cuff. Three sociopaths in one room and everyone was just going to pretend things were fine? And since when had things between Sherlock and Irene been fine? Apparently everything was just water under the bridge as far as everyone else was concerned. Well John, for one, wasn't having it.

 

“Hang on,” John was still piecing the story together in his head, and it wasn’t leading him down friendly roads. He focused on Irene and Sherlock, shoving Mary out of his mind with hard-fought and recent practice. “You two were together the entire time you were gone?”

 

“Not the entire time, no.” Sherlock’s voice was clipped and guarded. He clearly wanted the subject dropped. Irene stepped back sharply from Mary, her smile fading.

 

John had no intention of dropping his train of thought, not when he’d just seen his best mate nearly die (again) twice this week after discovering him in that god-awful drug den. Not when Irene Adler, the woman who had so casually feigned her death and demolished the man in that bed four years ago, was standing here now, flirting and cracking jokes. He’d not had nearly enough sleep to let this go. He rounded on Irene. “Did you know he'd gotten back into drugs?”

 

Irene met his gaze steadily and opened her mouth, but John already had his answer. “You knew.” His anger blazed. “You knew. And what, you did nothing? After everything you did, I still thought some part of you was human enough to care. But you... What are you even doing here?”

 

It was too much. Apparently, for both of them. John’s tangent had run out of steam and he was left running his hands through his hair and trying to understand. Mary was silent and stoic in the background. Irene, for all her carefully constructed masks, still looked a little as if someone had punched her in the gut.

 

“I asked her to come.” Sherlock’s voice whipped out, razor sharp, and the others all turned toward him.

 

John opened his mouth and then closed it again, not sure what to make of anything anymore. Sherlock had asked Irene Adler to come to his sickbed. The one John's wife had put him in. Why not?

 

Sherlock heaved out a long sigh and met John’s stunned gaze. “I asked her to come,” he repeated, voice uncharacteristically soft, strained with exhaustion and some undefined emotion.

 

John managed a terse nod, and Sherlock’s gaze immediately shifted toward Irene. They were like two magnets, drawn to each other, pulling down everything in their path.

 

Whatever look Sherlock and Irene exchanged appeared to speak volumes as Irene moved back to Sherlock’s bedside, her posture less tense than a moment prior.

 

Only once she was within reach did Sherlock wrench his eyes away from her to focus on Mary and John again. John was left with the distinct feeling that one of them would have reached out for the other if they were alone. That sense of intruding returned again, and John sighed, his anger fading as quickly as it had flared.

 

“Shall we leave the inevitable barrage of questions and sentiment for another day? I am supposed to be resting. And since I am still stuck in this insufferable hospital for another four days, at least, I would prefer not to antagonize the staff further by undergoing some sort of avoidable emotional duress."

 

John scrubbed his hands through his hair and exhaled a gusty sigh. "Right, then. I'll just - go." He glanced between Irene and Sherlock and it was on the tip of his tongue to ask whether or not Irene would be joining them in Baker Street once Sherlock was released. It had been a very good thing Sherlock had rescued John's chair - he couldn't bear to go back to the flat he'd shared with Mary.

 

Mary, who bit her lip and offered a guilty shrug. "It seems we've all had rather too much emotional distress the last few days anyway. We'll let you rest, Sherlock." Mary turned a tentative smile from Sherlock to Irene, "Ms. Adler, I do hope to see you again."

 

John shook his head in disbelief. But Mary had finally gone and suddenly John just wanted to get back to Baker Street to hide for a while. "I do expect an explanation, Sherlock."

 

The second they were out of the door, Sherlock sagged back in relief. Much of the determination and fight drained out of him and left him just as exhausted as he had been for his extended stay in hospital.

 

A teasing voice from his left queried, "Can my explanation be hands on?"

 

When he looked up, Irene's eyes were sparkling with mischief and something that might have been tenderness. Her hand skimmed purposefully along his arm. Sherlock smirked. "I thought you were worried about my stamina?"

 

"Mmm. Rain check, then." Irene bit her lip beguilingly, clearly already plotting both for Sherlock's short-lived convalescence and beyond.

 

Content that she wasn't going to start a scandal in the middle of the hospital (and resolutely telling himself he did not want her to), Sherlock was just settling back into his over-starched pillows when Irene spoke again. "Why send Mycroft?"

 

Sherlock snorted lightly, mainly at Mycroft's expense. If his hand found Irene's, he ignored it. “It finally occurred to me that I should put Mycroft’s resources to better use.”

 

“And what use would that be?” Underneath the teasing tone, Irene sounded thoughtful and wary.

 

Sherlock took a moment to observe her. He knew she was nervous about being back in England. If it had been a good idea, he would have brought her back with him in the first place. Or not waited so long to phone. But Sherlock had not realized quite how fearful she was. It was hard sometimes to remember that behind the impenetrable mask of The Woman, Irene was not quite made of stone. Sherlock met her eyes, his tone slightly warmer than usual. “You, obviously.”

 

Irene's arched eyebrow prompted him on, albeit reluctantly. He could hardly blame her for not being on the same page - it had taken his near death for the favor to be viable, after all.

“I will explain to Mycroft that you were indispensable to me in my officially sanctioned activities while I was out of the country and, as such, you should be granted amnesty to return to Merry Old.” He couldn’t quite suppress the sarcasm that came when discussing Mycroft, Queen and Country, especially when they were practically one and the same.

 

Irene's breath hitched ever so slightly, and she swallowed back something that could have been relief. "And you actually think that Mycroft, of all people, will help expedite my resurrection?"

 

"He will not have any choice in the matter. Mycroft is the one who sanctioned the Lazarus plan and any resources I needed to complete it. Mycroft will arrange for your papers because he owes both of us far more than he would prefer and because he will be afraid of what I am capable of if he does not." Sherlock recited this like a checklist, but he could not quite keep the resentment out of his voice when he spoke of his brother. He had decided to use Mycroft's resources to his benefit, yes, and receive the added pleasure of the look on Mycroft's face, but he was still loath to cooperate with his brother, especially after the incident with his undercover work on Magnussen. Having Irene around could be a great asset to solving that particular problem - or it could be a dangerous weakness. He'd not yet decided which.

 

"Perhaps I should have put you in hospital sooner, if this is the result," Irene mused, but her voice was just a shade too strained to be properly flippant. Naturally, she'd caught what he hadn't said - that it was his convalescence more than anything else that would force Mycroft's hand.

 

He offered her a reassuring smirk, a feeling of surprisingly warm amusement winning out over fatigue. "Nonsense - I'm far more use to you mobile, as I'm sure you've considered."

 

Her expression smoothed, a hint of playfulness layering over the concern that still lingered in her expression, almost too fine to discern for all but the most studied observer. Unfortunately for both of them, Sherlock was more than studied in her. "If you're implying that I'd shoot you, Mr. Holmes, be assured that if I had any intention of killing you I'd find something far more subtle... and guaranteed."

 

"Of that, I have no doubt."

 

But she'd dialed up the morphine at some point without him noticing, and everything was mellowing into a pleasant, exhausted blur far from the sharp pain of earlier.

 

Sherlock tried to glare at her, ready to chastise her for daring to drug him _again_ , but he really was quite exhausted and it was hard to keep his eyes open without the discomfort of his wound to force him awake.

 

The last thing he saw was her soft smile - somehow smug and tender all at once - before his eyes drifted shut.

 

\---

 

Irene was startled awake by the door opening again, the figures shuffling in clearly attempting to be quiet but failing spectacularly. She straightened warily, checking the clock and Sherlock's stats with the appalling realizations that not only had they only managed a few hours of sleep, but her back was already revolting at the uncomfortable and undignified contortion of sleeping in a chair, slouched over Sherlock's bed.

 

She'd expected John again, or Mycroft if she were especially unlucky, but the elderly couple standing in the doorway blinking owlishly at her were most assuredly neither. She subtly turned down Sherlock's morphine drip and squeezed his hand firmly, counting on his habitually high drug tolerance to ensure that his normally acute senses were not dulled beyond recall.

 

"Hello," she offered with one arched brow and a tone that implied she was exactly where she belonged and they were not.

 

"Oh, hello dear," began the woman, her eyes darting between Sherlock and Irene. Familiar, shifting eyes - heterochromia... "I'm sorry, have we met?"

 

It was only years of dedicated training that stopped the rush of shock from showing in Irene's expression. His _parents_. Of course. Sherlock was in hospital - who else might visit but the good Doctor Watson and the Holmes parents? She discretely released his hand.

 

The initial flash of panic faded under the intriguing possibilities of meeting the people who had raised the Holmes Brothers. They were dressed casually, with friendly - if wary - open expressions. They were clearly harried from the news of Sherlock's condition. Lived in the country - had come in as soon as they heard - Mr. Holmes was still in his slippers and Mrs. Holmes had on mismatched gloves, which she hurriedly removed.

 

"No," Irene breathed out, softening her tone and standing to extend her hand and offer them the lone seat. "I'm a friend of Sherlock's - Irene Adler. You must be Mr. and Mrs. Holmes."

 

His father nodded kindly, shuffling forward to shake her hand. He had on a thick jumper and a bowtie, of all ridiculous things. "Siger Holmes, and this is my wife, Lydia. Lovely to meet you, Ms. Adler." His gaze kept darting toward Sherlock, pain at the edges of his eyes.

 

"How is he? Myc said he was awake earlier," Sherlock's mother - Lydia - fussed, hurrying to the other side of the bed and hovering there, hands fluttering over Sherlock's hair as if uncertain she should touch him. "We came as soon as Myc phoned with the news."

 

Irene wasn't entirely certain how to answer that question. No matter how benign the pair of them seemed these were the people who had raised Mycroft and Sherlock and survived it. There was a shrewdness in Mrs. Holmes' eyes that surely her sons had inherited, and Irene did not fancy being the messenger that the youngest Holmes had been shot. "He's just resting for a moment," Irene hedged, careful to keep her tone neutral.

 

"He _was_ resting," came the acerbic reply, and Irene had to bite back a sense of relief and disappointment that Sherlock was awake.

 

His mother's relief was very palpable and tactile - the older woman leaning over and engulfing Sherlock in a hug that was bound to be painful.

 

"Oh stop fussing, I'm fine," hissed Sherlock, doing his best to escape his mother's grasp without moving and looking properly mortified. Irene upped her rating of the hug to considerably painful by the extra bite to his words and the way his eyes immediately narrowed on his morphine switch.

 

Lydia relinquished her hold but not her post, buoyed by Siger at her side. "You are most certainly not fine, Sherlock! Myc said you've been shot! You must be more careful, dear."

 

"Mycroft shouldn't have worried you." He thumbed the morphine drip to the maximum setting, clearly looking for the only escape on offer at the moment.

 

Lydia's eyes narrowed at his evasion. "Of course he should have, he's your brother. And we're your parents; it's our job to worry - especially when someone's shot our baby boy. Now tell me what happened, or I'll have it out of Myc anyway."

 

Sherlock's eyes darted toward where Irene was leant against the far wall - close enough to observe but, for once, not trying to draw attention to herself. No, she was far more interested in watching Sherlock interact with his parents - it was both fascinating and illuminating.

 

But he didn't linger, clearly not wanting to draw attention to her presence either. "I underestimated a client." He admitted with a momentary grimace. "It's fine now."

 

Lydia pursed her lips. "Was this client a woman?"

 

The present Holmes all turned to look at Irene with varying degrees of discretion. Lydia was more correct than she likely suspected, while Siger merely looked vaguely baffled at the implication.

 

Sherlock stiffened, attempting to struggle into a seated position before thinking better of it and pressing the controls to raise the upper half of his bed. "It always is."

 

They shared a brief, fond look. Irene found herself more smug than jealous - she recognized that the wistful flattery in Sherlock's tone was for her alone.

 

Proving that she was more astute than she let on - worthy of her sons, certainly - Lydia left off questioning Sherlock immediately, turning toward Irene instead. "And how do you know Sherlock again, dear?"

 

Irene had several choice ways she could answer such a question but she bit them back, curious to hear Sherlock's explanation.

 

"We met through Mycroft."

 

It was certainly a version of the truth, though an annoying one. She would have found a different way to be introduced to the great consulting detective if Mycroft hadn't been the end game at the time. A game she quite preferred not to dwell on.

 

"Oh," Sherlock's father peered guilelessly at her. "Do you work for the government as well?"

 

This time, Irene had a very firm answer in mind, and she was about to scoff a denial that she'd never work for or with Mycroft when Sherlock seized on the fiction. "Yes, after a fashion. She's been out of the country - you know how it is, all very _hush, hush_."

 

Biting back the flash of annoyance, Irene agreed, "I've only just returned," with a raised eyebrow at Sherlock's rapid-fire, slightly manic description. Not that she minded being mistaken for a government spy - she just minded being mistaken as one that worked with Mycroft - certain exploits during Sherlock's feigned death aside.

 

His mother gave Irene an appraising look. "Some friend, to sit by your bedside. We've only just found out ourselves."

 

Mycroft must have phoned the Holmes parents after picking Irene up from the airport as part of some petty, diabolical scheme.

 

"Yes, well, she happened to be in town," Sherlock lied with his usual snappish impatience. "Is this really important, Mother? I'm tired. I have just _been shot_ , after all."

 

Lydia's face contorted in a way that was mostly sympathy, but there was a pinched look to her mouth that implied the discussion was far from over.

 

Showing a surprising degree of intuition, Siger gently took his wife's elbow, forestalling her reply. "We'll let you rest, Sherlock. Myc's put us up right by the hospital, in case you need us."

 

"Why would I need you?" Sherlock snapped, peevish at the open concern from his parents - or perhaps just at Irene being witness to it.

 

Engulfing Sherlock in a last, exceedingly careful, hug, Lydia fussed with his hair until he swatted her away, eventually letting her husband steer her out of the room. "We'll be by first thing in the morning. And I've already got the spare room made up for when you're feeling well enough to come home."

 

Sherlock pointedly ignored them leaving, closing his eyes and pretending, poorly and rather sullenly, to be asleep already.

 

He waited until the door finally clicked shut to speak. "Yes, those are my real parents, unfortunately. Mycroft had them tested - four times."

 

"They seemed lovely," Irene countered, settling back at his bedside and meeting his glower with a raised eyebrow.

 

"They seemed boring, you mean," he lowered the bed again, eyelids heavy with morphine despite the sharpness of his words.

 

"I would have said: _fascinating_ ," she corrected, mind admittedly racing from the wealth of insights meeting Sherlock's parents provided.

 

He seemed determined to draw out her derision, as though it were lurking just under the surface. He was embarrassed. "You're not surprised, then? By how ordinary they are?"

 

Irene let her hand brush his, just a fleeting touch, easily denied if questioned. "I think they're far from ordinary, but no, I'm not surprised. If your parents had been as coldy intellectual as you and Mycroft, you'd both lack even the rudimentary social skills I've observed."

 

Sherlock stiffened, but did not withdraw his hand. "How flattering."

 

"It wasn't meant to be. Now, are you going to stop pouting and tell me what actually happened with Mary, or shall I pretend to be as obtuse as the good Doctor Watson and let you show off?"

 

Sherlock's frame stiffened, his eyes opening to watch hers, though he kept his reply flippant. "Have you heard of CAM?"

 

It was hardly difficult to deduce from the limited list of people powerful enough to warrant Sherlock suffering a gunshot. Still, the very initials sent a chill through Irene's blood in a way she hadn't thought possible after Jim's end. She chose her words carefully, mindful that the man under discussion was more than capable of having ears in a hospital room, even one Mycroft Holmes would have scoured for bugs. "I didn't think Charlie went to the effort of getting his hands dirty."

 

"No," Sherlock agreed, "I told you. That was for a case."

 

A case. A gunshot. Mary. CAM. "You have a plan?"

 

A derisive snort was her response. _Naturally._

 

But Sherlock was hardly at his best, and he was going to need to be to go up against Magnussen. Even Irene had carefully steered clear of the newspaper magnate, wary of the perils associated with entangling with him. In comparison, Jim had seemed positively manageable. Jim had liked the game - Magnussen liked to own people. It was enough to put even a dominatrix off.

 

Irene squared her shoulders. "What can I do?" She had at least three ideas already, none of which she particularly liked, but all of which she preferred over whatever ends Magnussen had in mind for Sherlock.

 

"Leave."

 

Anyone else might have taken offense. Irene was flattered. "I've only just arrived."

 

He sighed, his voice tired and slurred despite his best efforts to hide it. His wound was taking more of a toll on him than he wanted to admit, even to her. "Yes, and my hospital room already seems to be a revolving door. It's better if you remain out of sight until this is over."

 

Her suspicions were correct, then. Magnussen liked finding weak points to exploit. Clearly, Sherlock felt she was one of his. "Now I'm flattered. You're presuming that it will be over."

 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, a vicious curl to his lip. "Oh, it will be." He didn't bother to deny the flattery, though.

 

Irene arched an eyebrow. "And you?"

 

"Oh, I'll be suffering through purgatory - otherwise known as staying with my parents. Unavoidable, unfortunately."

 

They, clearly, were not considered a pressure point. Sherlock had gone out of his way to express his derision for people who he clearly cared for - Sherlock was more than capable of making people leave if he truly wanted them gone. It wasn't a terrible plan, then. Lure Magnussen with false pressure points - hospital, drug use, Janine - and then strike while seemingly remote and out of play.

 

"You'll need something he wants more than he wants you."

 

Sherlock gave a lazy shrug, wincing at the movement, though he hid it well. The morphine was kicking in, then - he was forgetting to be careful of his injury. "I'm just a means to an end. As I'm sure you well remember."

 

It was Irene's turn to wince. _Mycroft_. She didn't know whether to be horrified or proud that she'd come up with the plan of using Sherlock to get to the British Government first. Certainly, it was not her finest hour. But the plan, oh, the plan had been achingly brilliant. If only Sherlock hadn't been so... _Sherlock_. "As I recall, that's never the end."

 

A ghost of his normal smirk, but even Sherlock was not completely immune to the soporific effects of pain killers. "You wouldn't want it to be."

 

"In this case, I might make an exception."

 

"You're always the exception."

 

It was a delicious admission, and one that Sherlock would probably have never made under his own volition.

 

Irene squeezed his hand, distracted and worried and hating the idea of leaving him to face another vicious foe while she was halfway around the world. Or perhaps she just hated the idea of leaving, albeit only temporarily. Her resurrection was in the works, after all, but Sherlock was right - it was better that she remained apparently dead until his confrontation with Magnussen was finished.

 

It would hardly be the first time she'd orchestrated a coup from afar.

 

"You'll phone, if you need me?" She straightened, gathering her coat and handbag. She'd leave tonight, then. Better to be safe.

 

"I always do."


End file.
